


still, the desire

by randomfatechidna



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, wanda likes to drink and That's That
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-17 05:40:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13070289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomfatechidna/pseuds/randomfatechidna
Summary: She grins up at him, contented and emboldened by his touch, and, downing her drink, she drags him to the bar for another.  "One for me," she says, handing him a glass, "and one for you." Vision protests. She, however, is having none of it. "It's New Years," she says. "Live a little."





	still, the desire

**Author's Note:**

> i've had this sitting around for years, and have only just gotten around to editing it into something publishable. originally written the new years eve after aou came out, i rewrote it to fit a post infinity war future where wandavision isn't canon yet. happy new year!

"It hasn't been a good year," she says, a wry smile on her face, champagne in hand. "Has it?"

 

He takes a beat to consider before he speaks, like he always does, and nods. "Objectively, no, it hasn't."

 

"Subjectively?" She’s incredulous, she’s smiling.

 

"Still no."

 

She laughs, almost spilling her drink, her smile brightening her face instantly. He’s a riot when he’s being sarcastic and aloof, and it makes her head spin with affection. It seems the others only rarely see this side of him - sardonic and infectious - and she likes the way it gives her a secret to keep. He catalogues the conversation away as a success - he has made her smile - and remembers it for when he wishes to make her laugh again, a desire that increases with every interaction he has with her.

 

The people on TV are quizzing each other on the current affairs of the past year, the buzz of the room dimming only slightly when talk turns to the Avengers. Despite the dampened hum of conversation, the occasional shout of laughter, everyone, to some degree, anxiously keeps an eye on the TV. Wanda turns away. Distracts herself.

 

She steels herself to find some thread of conversation to pursue, to shake off reliving the year, as the occupants of the room seem wont to do. She stares up at the Vision, cocks her head. "Every year Pietro and I would steal fireworks with the other neighbourhood kids." She seems to struggle to decide whether she wants to smile or frown. She looks down into her drink. "I used to get angry at him, but even before HYDRA, he was always too quick to be caught." Sensing her distress, Vision wants to hold her, but recognises how it could be perceived as inappropriate in such a public setting. Still. The desire remains.

 

She once told him that crowding into somebody’s space while they were distressed could make matters worse. She also told him that physical closeness while someone was upset was an effective way to comfort them. The pause as he decides which course of action to pursue is brief, but fraught with nerves. He shuffles closer to her, talking softly. "Do you miss him?" She looks up at him carefully, her eyes bright.

 

"Yes. Less each day, but, yes. Always."

 

He nods. He does not know loss, the way she knows it, the intimate way, like something vital has been misplaced. He doesn't know grief in the violent way, in the screams and tears and clenched fists, the way she was after Sokovia. He thinks he might know it in the way the tower felt different when she left with Clint to run from the government and him; the way he was imprisoned by his own actions; the way he felt her in the hollowed space of her quarters where she once existed but never was when he checked, irrationally, everyday; in the way he could imagine her with him, but when he'd reach out to touch her, the delirium shattered.

 

He covers her hand with his own, and she twists her fingers into his, squeezing with a kind of gentle force he has come to associate with her. It's a quiet gesture of comfort - both for him and, he hopes, for her. It sates his desire to wrap her in his arms, anyhow, for a time. The warmth of her grief abates, like the going of the tide, and she grins up at him, contented and emboldened by his touch, and, downing her drink, she drags him to the bar for another. He does not mention that it is her fifth glass. "One for me," she says, handing him a cut crystal flute, "and one for you." Vision protests. She, however, is having none of it. "It's New Years," she says. "Live a little."

 

He takes the glass, watching the bubbles pop and buzz inside. It would be mesmerising, if not for the woman in front of him, who has mesmerised him for the whole of his life. He notices, not for the first time, how she has dressed up for this event: her dress is borrowed from Natasha - short, glittering, and very red - her eyes are lined, lips painted, and now, in context, it falls into place.

 

She has also not left his side all night.

 

Oh.

 

She is looking up at him expectantly, eyes sparkling. Her thoughts push at his mind. _Come on!_ she says. They are very close. She wraps her fingers, adorned with jewellery, around his forearm and lifts it towards his mouth, eyes set firmly on his in a challenge.

 

_Do you want to get me drunk, Wanda?_

 

She raises an eyebrow. _Is that even possible?_ she sends back, then shrugs. "Let's see," she says aloud, to the confusion of the bartender, who only hears the verbal end of their mental conversation.

 

He takes a sip, spluttering a little at the dryness, and the bubbles as they pop in his mouth. It is not altogether bad, and he manages another sip, allowing himself to taste it, instead of getting distracted by the bubbles.

 

"Is it terrible?" she asks, laughing. She has never not known what is going on in his head, but she allows him the kindness of verbalising his answer for himself.

 

He quirks an eyebrow. "Objectively?" She slaps his arm playfully, her laugh filling the space around them. "Subjectively," he relents, "it's pleasant." His response elicits another smile - it seems to be a night for smiles; partygoers in the tower grinning, champagne drunk and content - and he is glad to have caused this one. He smiles back.

 

A group starts counting down - way too early, in his opinion - from twenty. Wanda takes him towards the screen, to the middle of the group, where it seems the entire population of America has turned out to New York on TV to see the ball drop. Wanda holds his hand and smiles gently up at him, eyes full of what he now knows to call love, and he knows what she has been trying to do all night, and he knows he should maybe object, but he finds that he wants this - he wants her, desperately - and if New Years is when she wants to do it, who is he to protest?

 

With each descending number, Wanda's grip tightens infinitesimally. And then, finally, two, one.

 

"Happy New Year," he says, turning to her, but she already has her hand around his neck, and has touched her lips to his. She tastes like champagne, he thinks, and warmth and puff pastry. She stumbles a bit, legs giving under the weight of the moment, but he takes her around the waist and steadies her. She shivers in his arms. He thinks he wants to hold her like this for the rest of his life.

 

A number of hoots and wolf-whistles sound, but it phases neither of them. If Wanda spares a free hand to throw up her middle finger to silence them, it only serves to make their spectators laugh. He doesn't embarrass, like he thought he would. This is what they've wanted, after all. For a long time.

 

They break apart, only for Wanda to catch her breath, and he takes the opportunity to kiss her chastely again. The space around them has a reddish-pink tinge, and she blushes at her considerable loss of control, flicking her fingers quickly to make the scarlet fog dissipate. He loves her, he realises. He’s not sure how he knows, having never been in love before, but the idea won’t leave him, the same way the bright, happy pressure in his chest which has bothered him all night, doesn’t leave him.

 

He tells her, whispers it in her ear, so that the others, who have returned to their conversations, wishing those around them a happy new year, cannot hear his words. Her beaming smile glows brighter, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything as beautiful as she is, in this moment.

 

Wanda pulls him closer and kisses him again, warm and slow and languid, and whispers quietly in his mind, red and glittering and _familiar_ , that she loves him too.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm randomfatechidna on tumblr :)


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